


you already know (how this will end)

by HallowedHope



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Her Name is Root, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-07 05:39:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12226869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedHope/pseuds/HallowedHope
Summary: Who were they, really? Just random, irrelevant numbers, just blips of code. But let me show you how they grew. Let me show you what they were fighting for. Let me show you why they mattered.





	1. Ascension

She used to love Oregon Trail, you know. Loved the feeling of sitting beside Hanna, typing things that made people live (or die, as it may be). Loved the feeling of control, of absolute power over the game and how it would turn out. Loved the feeling of sharing that power with Hanna, a mentor, a teacher, a friend. 

But you see, this is where things turn bad, because the important part of this story is that it doesn't end happily. It doesn't end with them growing old together, doesn't end with sunkissed days of bliss. It ends with a car, a man, and a dead body. And after that, you can't honestly say you expected her to be the same. You can't _demand_ that from her.

Perhaps though, you would never have predicted what she has become. A monster, you may say, because only a psychopath would love killing, like to see the blood drain from someone's face and eventually their throats, adore the scent of fear and terror. But she would beg to differ. She deals with issues in her own way, and if that way happens to involve a gun and a little violent crime, who are you to judge? Look at it this way. It has made her _stronger_. Given her a spine of steel and heart of coal and then bestowed a body of death and destruction to match. This mind has cracked the human psyche like it was nothing but a child's puzzle, these hands have snapped necks like they were twigs, and how can you say that isn't any stronger, better, than before?

Maybe you'd think that she was without direction. And that would have been true. A hacker-assassin for hire seldom has a higher goal, in fact, seldom has anything else in mind other than the next kill. But this is where God comes in. _Deux ex Machina_ , they say. The God from the Machine. Well, the God was the Machine, to her. Perfect logical reasoning skills, no emotions to drag it down, and not a hint of bad code. Sometimes she falls asleep dreaming of becoming it. Becoming God.

This is why she keeps trying to reach Harold. Keeps trying to find him, and find the Machine. Because if he made God, then what was he? Powerful, certainly. And she respects power, in all its forms. Don't ever let it be said that she doesn't have standards.

So you see, she can't help but feel a flicker of disappointment when she finally meets him in the flesh. You would too, if you were in her place. Meeting God's creator, and realising that he was just a man, as flawed as anyone else. And when she kidnaps him, holds a gun to his head, he lets out a whimper, a _freaking whimper_ , low in his throat and thready with the hum of his desperation, and really, can you blame her for snapping?

But she doesn't have much time with him in any case, doesn't have any time at all until John is upon her, stealing Harold back like a mother cat would save a kitten from drowning in a raging river. She thinks that John is the mother cat in that equation, and it’s only when she remembers him sat in her psychologist's office that she remembers _no_. John is the weak one, the killer who felt dirty with blood on his hands, the _government-sanctioned murderer_. And perhaps you think that it being legal somehow makes murder more acceptable, perhaps you think it makes it even _okay_. She knows John thinks that way, tries to find salvation in a higher power, first the government, and then Harold. She, she thinks that it’s a joke. Murder is never okay, but if you don't learn to destroy others, then they'll destroy you, and we can't have that, can we?

And then she meets Sameen. Holds an iron to her collarbone, precise and deadly in its intent. Or at least, only until she catches the hint of arousal in Shaw's eyes. She may have found a kindred soul, she realises, and no matter what happens she will always regret never having the chance to hear Shaw scream, to brand Shaw with iron and steel. But that's of no consequence, not until much later in this tale. What's important to note is that from the moment she meets Shaw, their relationship is fire, brimstone and holy hell. You can judge her for _that_ , at least. She knows that it isn't normal, but she doesn't much care what you think.

See, this is how her world begins. With snippets of conversation strung together into coherency, with the psychedelic flicker of words in her ear. With a payphone, and with God. And she makes no secret of being a zealot, but how can she _not_ be one, when even God has deigned to speak with her?

See, this is how her world ends. Not with a bang, but with an empty warehouse, and a betrayal. With a patronising gaze, and a loss. And with a gunshot wound to her shoulder, and a terrible, tearing pain. She realises then that even Harold, _fucking Harold,_  is more powerful than her, can take her God away from her with a flick of his finger. Before she breaks, she realises that Harold is the one she has to appeal to, if she has any chance of hearing her God again.

And then she wakes, again. In a place called Stoneridge, which she feels is aptly named because it makes her want to _throw herself off a stone ridge_. But even though she could very easily massacre everyone in the building and sneak out, she stays. Because the Machine asks her to, and at least she can speak to God, if only for sixty-minute intervals and on a hospital payphone with patchy reception. At least God is there, even if she isn’t perfect just quite yet. And though Root isn’t particularly pleased with the constant poking and prodding, the constant psychoanalysis, the _rationalisation_ of her insanity (as if they knew quite how deep that particular iceberg went), she is content.

But then she discovers that Ronald, _dear Ron_ , is just like Trent Russell. Just like the man who raped and killed her Hanna, just the kind of pervert who adores gaining trust and then breaking it, taking the mind, body and soul along for the ride. And really, even you can’t condemn her for wanting to murder him, wanting to make him die slowly and painfully in the very way she made Trent Russell die. He _deserves it_ , and if you had any sense of morality, you would be cheering behind her as she sinks the blade into his chest. But she is not concerned with whether you approve.

She is more concerned with whether God approves. And when the Machine tells her to stay her hand, she does, leaving him to wander in the chaos of her creation. The drugged air, bullet-ridden walls, blood-stained floors. She leaves him to ponder what he has done, because she told him, _told him_ how dangerous she was, and if he chose not to listen then he deserved what he got.

But you see, Root never really escapes. She has a brief interlude, a beautiful, _violent_ few hours with Shaw, alone in a safehouse, and a taste of being the Machine’s acolyte, truly free at last. And then Harold comes into the picture. Locks her up in a cage, as if she were no more than a feral _animal_. She wants to go up to him, stroke his back with a few chillingly cold fingers, and tell him that he is right. That she is dangerous, that she is savage, that she is a bomb just waiting to go off. But instead she smiles, nods, and dies a little every time she hears him leave a tray of food at the gate. 

This imprisonment only ends with desperation, only ends when John is in danger and they need her to save the day. Really, she thinks that Harold should just whisk John away to a desert island and keep him there. What’s the point of having a solider you’re too afraid to use? And after, she returns to her prison willingly, because she _chose_ to be there, and the choice _matters_ , no matter how much you may tell her that a prison is still a prison if it’s within her mind.

It’s almost laughable how easily Control thinks she can break Root. A few needles, a scalpel and a surgery in your right ear. The thing is, Root can handle pain, can take herself away to a place where none of it matters. The thing is, Root almost breaks when Control takes half her hearing, almost shatters with fear of never hearing God again. But then God intervenes, and Root can breathe again. Because it is almost laughable that a woman, any woman, can break Root beyond how much she has already been broken.

It turns out to be a good thing though. She gets a cochlear implant, and God can whisper in her ear. A personal hotline to heaven, just for her. And Root has no delusions about an easy job, and easy life. No, she knows she was born to live fast, shoot straight and die young. And if she’s serving the Machine, she thinks she can almost be happy with what she has. And it starts to get easier, and she starts to think that maybe John isn’t so weak, Harold isn’t so blind, and Sameen isn’t too bad. Because the strange dynamic that the team has created somehow extends to retired assassins-for-hire, and you can say that she is getting soft, but she doesn’t really care. Not when she has _almost_ all she ever wanted. 

You could have told her that happiness never lasts. Hell, she could probably have guessed for herself. But she doesn’t see it _coming_ , and that makes it all the worse when Sameen leaves. And perhaps you’ll say that she became reckless, walking on the edges of roofs and skirting the corners of the shadow map to find Sameen, but you mustn't think of it that way. Sameen is part of the team, and the team _needs_ Sameen (and maybe she fails to mention that _she_ needs Sameen more than anything). So she exists through those months, barely breathing, barely living, and if you ask she’ll tell you that it’s not _love_ , because psychopaths can’t love, not really. Maybe it’s just the need for explosions and gunfire and sparks flying every time she’s around Sameen. Maybe it’s just the need for a four-alarm fire. 

So when she sees Sameen again, she doesn’t hesitate to cock the gun and place it under her chin. Yes, she feels the cool touch of metal on her flesh, but she also feels the chilling fear that Sameen will shoot herself again, and she tries to tell herself that she _doesn’t care_ , but it’s just not true anymore and Root was never one for lying to herself. And when Sameen looks at her with a predatory hunger, Root gives in, because anything, even a loss of power, is better than not having this at all.

You know already how this ends, don’t you? With a glorious parting shot, with a conversation about love, shapes and sex. With Sameen holding off her back, with a car chase and a sniper. With a choice, a _choice_ to save Harold instead of herself, to sacrifice her life to save the man who started this mess in the first place. And don’t you dare tell her that choices _don’t matter_ , because this one did. It had to. 

And she can’t really finish telling this story. She’s dead, after all. But you, you can figure this out for yourself. She becomes the Machine, becomes God, becomes what she has always wanted to be (you may say that she is just its voice, but she’s something _more_ , she _has_ to be). And in the end, she sees them through, lets John die in a blaze of glory, lets Harold see Grace again, lets Sameen live on with Bear and the murmur of her lover’s voice in her ear. And you may not approve, you may not appreciate what she has become, but she doesn’t much care for you either way. She approves, she _likes_ who she is, and maybe, for once, she _loves_ the life she has lived. And that’s all that matters.

 

_When it's all over, there's still one thing left in Pandora's Box. Hope._


	2. Understanding

Perhaps you think that Shaw suffered through some traumatic experience, some scarring incident that made her the way she is. But the thing is, as far as Shaw can remember, she had always been this way. Feelings just didn't come easy to her. Sympathy, empathy, caring about what others felt wasn't part of her psyche, wasn't hard-coded into her at birth the way it was for most people. Instead, she was, and is, this. Cold. Hard. Broken.  
  
It never really bothered her, and never bothered anyone else either. Her parents were fine with it, the same way a teacher is fine with a student who just scrapes a pass. Not good enough to warrant special attention, but not disastrous enough to call for intervention. And you might think that would have bothered Shaw, not being cared about, but we've been over this before. Shaw simply doesn't care. And if you asked, she would tell you that trying to make feelings matter to her is a lost cause.   
  
Shaw knows to do what she is good at, knows that if you have a skill you use it and if you have a talent you exploit it. And that's why, when the car crashes and her father dies, she focuses on the paramedics, instead of the dead body. Because she doesn't care, _can't_ care about her dead parent, but she can watch and learn from what the doctors are doing, watch as they cover the corpse with a tent, as they pick charred bits of flesh off the asphalt. And when one of them pauses, turns away, and throws up in a nearby bush, Shaw scoffs at their weakness. Why become a paramedic if you can't handle the blood?   
  
You could say that it inspired her to go to medical school, if you're an optimist. Really, though, Shaw just thinks she has found the only career that doesn't care if she's a cold-hearted bitch. She fast-tracks through the surgery module, volunteers to slice open the cadaver, and barely flinches at sticking her arm into someone's torso. It's easy, you see, for her to scrub in without nerves, to make an incision without anxiety, to remove someone's guts without disgust. It's a simple matter to her, and staring at bodies and blood soon becomes part of her routine, fitting nicely into her schedule alongside getting the laundry and brushing her teeth. And Shaw isn't happy with it, not by a long shot, but it's something to do with her life and she's at least content with what she has.   
  
Which is why she flinches when her supervisor calls her into his office, tells her to pack her bags and leave. You ate a granola bar whilst telling a family of their father's death, he spits at her, and she feel like screaming back what's wrong with that. You see, she knows what's wrong, she knows that it should be insensitive, insulting, and should feel like anathema for her to do, but she doesn't know it in the same way someone without her sociopathy would. And that makes all the difference.   
  
Now though, you may think that she is broken. That she would crumble with the weight of the realisation that she can never be the same as those who can feel emotions. You would be wrong. Shaw does not shatter, does not fragment, does nothing but shrug, scoff and move on to the next task thrown her way. And with a few backroom deals and one very legal piece of paperwork, she joins the military. 

And it’s easy, so _easy_ , for her to enjoy this. For her to enjoy fighting, hurting, _killing_. It just doesn’t bother her, the way it does other people, her platoon-mates flinching as they shoot a gun for the first time, recoiling as a grenade blows up in their faces. They have to train themselves not to feel fear, pity, disgust. She needs only to be herself. And sometimes, in the regimented world of the army, and later the backstabbing, messy world of being a professional spy, Shaw thinks that she’s found her vocation.

But you know how this pans out, don’t you? Know that it ends with her former employers setting a hit on Cole, the _one person_ she has perhaps managed to _like_ over the course of her thirty-plus years of life. Know that it ends with her failing to protect him, and him dying in a gory, glorious hailstorm of fire and bullets. Know that it ends with her almost being _murdered_ by her agency, the people she’s trusted to keep her safe.

So you must admit that she has every right to be surprised when she turns around and sees a man at her back, shooting beside her, yelling at her to move. Really, she’s surprised that she’s alive at all. Wasn’t expecting to have _this_ many lives, really, even if Cole used to tell her that she was the cat with nine lives and a spitting personality to match. On hindsight, though, she really should have expected it. Finch and his crazy bunch of killers regularly pull off miracles, and she has no doubt that she’s just the latest in a long line of heists and resurrections and life-saving exploits. Knowing that they chose to save _her_ , though, is both flattering and mildly unsettling. Of course, it doesn’t change the fact that she chooses to snub them and their job offer a grand total of five times. Even you can’t deny that perhaps staying out of the stalking and murdering business for a while would be conducive to her long-term health. And she doesn’t owe them _any_ loyalty for saving her. You may call her cold, call her heartless and call her a backstabbing bitch, but that’s just what she is and you can take it or leave it.

But then, she meets Root. Or Veronica Sinclair, as she introduces herself, but Shaw knows that’s a lie. The _real_ Veronica Sinclair would never have that gleam of insanity in her eyes, would never check the door before opening it, would never stand with that sheer  _murderous_ intent. So when Shaw wakes to find herself tied up to a chair, an iron inches from her face, she bites back a curse because _she knew it, she saw this coming_. And she doesn’t feel anything, she just can’t, but hearing the sharp sizzle of water off the burning hot iron makes her feel a brief flash of arousal, and she can’t seem to hide it as she whispers _I kinda like this sort of thing_. And when Root replies softly with _I do too_ , Shaw learns to appreciate the glimmer of madness in Root’s eyes, because she realises Root’s just as _fucked up_ as she is, and maybe she’s found a kindred soul. Somewhere deep inside her, Shaw feels a flicker of disappointment as Root steps out, without ever pressing the burning metal to her skin.

And the thought of Root never really leaves her mind, even as she is grudgingly recruited to be the sociopathic killer in Finch’s madcap escapade. Every single time she fires a gun, stalks a victim, tortures a hapless soul, she can’t help thinking that _Root would have liked this_. And she’s not feeling love, you know she _can’t_ , but maybe this is just a strange obsession that won’t go away.

Meanwhile, though, Shaw thinks that this is the best dig she’s had yet. A tech-support supergenius and a man almost as trigger-happy as she is, both willing to put up with her penchant for going off-script and causing a ridiculous amount of collateral damage. It’s almost _cushy_ , and say what you will, but Shaw doesn’t _do_ cushy. She’s lived a life of guerrilla fighting in jungles, torture in dark warehouses, murder in deserted alleyways. Saving people is _not_ what she was trained for. But she shrugs, and learns how to be gentle, how to resist the urge to off anyone who gets in her way. Finch has a moral objection to dead bodies, after all. It feels like pulling teeth and she’s convinced she can’t do it, she just _can’t_.

But then she meets Gen. A little girl, possibly a budding superspy, who just _knows_. And Shaw’s firmly convinced that her radio is nonexistent, but if this child wants her to try finding it then she will. She keeps the medal, then, even though it really doesn’t matter to her. And somewhere along the way, staying her hand and keeping people alive seems to get _easier_ , seems to get better, and Shaw has no idea how or why. She just accepts it like she’s accepted everything else in her life, learns to get along with Finch, spar playfully with John and shoot beside Root like they’re both elements of destruction.

And maybe you think that Samaritan capturing her, warping her reality, throwing her into simulations and forcing her to kill these three people she’s been trained to protect, perhaps you think it _breaks_ her. The thing is, it doesn’t. Shaw has a trick, you see. Something an old Marine trainer told her. _Focus on the one thing you still have left, and never let it go_ . So she holds on to that searing kiss, holds on to the feeling of Root’s chapped lips on hers, holds on to the arch of Root’s back and the spread of her legs. And in more than seven thousand simulations, more than ten thousand killings of John, Finch, even Bear, _Root_ is the one person she never manages to kill. Her safe place, and Shaw shoots herself seven thousand times, dies rather than kills that perky psycho. Go figure.

 _Four-alarm fire_ , Root whispers to her, in static bursts of morse code, over a patchy speaker. And Shaw, sitting against the door, needle held up to her eyeball, prepared to jam it in and finally _end this_ , freezes. Stands, turns, hands the syringe to the guards as they storm in. Smiles, because she knows that Root will burn down this entire compound and eviscerate all the guards to save her, and Shaw’s never been one for being rescued like a damsel in distress, but knowing that someone is _trying_ is enough for her.

But when she finally escapes, she greets Root with a gun to her own head and a promise of suicide. You see, she doesn’t know what’s real anymore, _can’t_ know, and the risk of Root dying at her hands, her waking up to see Root’s blood on her hands and body at her feet, is not one she can bear. Root though, has never played by the rules, and when Root cocks a gun and holds it to her own skull, Shaw can’t help but flinch. In that moment, though, even as a cold frisson of fear runs through Shaw, as her hand freezes on the trigger and she stares at Root in horror, she can’t help feeling that this is a benediction. A relief. And Shaw allows Root to lead her back to the subway, numbly follows the crazy woman back home, processing the weight of the sheer, crushing knowledge of what Root would do for her. She’s never expected loyalty and salvation to hurt this much, but it does, it _does_.

The thing is, you already know where this is going. Where, and how, this will end. Because Shaw and Root together are a four-alarm fire in an oil refinery, and those fires are explosive, heated, and short-lived. They are blink-and-miss-it wonders. Because Root was _dumb enough_ to get herself killed, to swerve, to take the bullet and save Harold. Shaw isn’t sure what Root is thinking of in that moment, isn’t even sure if she ranks high enough on Root’s list of priorities to be one of Root’s last thoughts. But she does know that, without Root, she just doesn’t care anymore. So when John touches her on the shoulder, Harold murmurs a few comforting words into her ear, she feels like spitting _you don’t care, do you? You’ve never known her._ And when she can’t grieve, can’t cry at Root’s grave, she feels like a traitor to the cause.

  
The AI apocalypse ends faster than Shaw thinks it has any right to. John goes out in a fireball, taken out by a missile in the most glorious way possible, Harold elopes with Grace to some far-flung city, and Fusco goes back to being a slightly less corrupt cop. And she’s left with Bear, a possibly-resurrected superintelligence, and a lack of purpose. All she has now is the murmur of Root’s words in her ear. _You always thought you were broken because you don’t feel things the same way others do. But, Root always thought that it was what made you beautiful._ And you might say that Shaw is growing soft, is losing it, but the knowledge, the _understanding_ , that for some people, the little she can feel is enough, that almost makes Shaw shed a tear.

 

_(To Root) Seven thousand simulations. I killed a lot of people. But the one person I couldn't kill, was you._


	3. Altruism

Zoe knows that she is smart. Knows that she can ace any exam you set before her, knows that if you made her memorise a deck of cards she could, knows that she's often the smartest person in the room. Thing is, she's smart enough to realise that she's also _street-smart_. From the moment her father stood before a crowd at a political rally and stirred them up, putting thoughts into their minds and swaying them to his point of view, and finally stood in governmental office, elected by majority vote, Zoe has known the value of human manipulation. She can almost _see_ the neurons firing inside their skulls, can almost _feel_ how someone will react to something. And so she put her mind to use, drawing an intricate web of human relations, lines linking _Mom_ to _Dad, Grandpa_ to _Grandma,_ _Aunt_ to _Mailman_ , colouring in her psychedelic weave of connections. And eventually, she began using it, using it to make others do what she wanted, make others bend over backwards to help her, make others kneel at her feet and worship her. And you may say that's manipulative, sly, even _evil_ , but Zoe knows that she's just doing what she does best. _Knowing things._

 She's never really found a word for what she does, never really thought it could be a job or career, could be something she would be openly _respected_ for. But then her father gets involved in a corruption scandal, and 14-year-old Zoe stands at the windowsill, lifting up the drapes with a shaking hand, and watches as a man moves among the press, neither screaming nor whining, but instead speaking with a calm, assured grace. Later, she learns that he is a _fixer._ And she recognises what she wants to be.

You see, some girls have childhood dreams of becoming a princess with a heart of gold, or a fairy with gossamer wings and a magic wand. Zoe dreams of exploitation. She dreams of knowing everyone's dirty little secrets, of digging up their hidden skeletons, of placing them on display. She dreams of analysing connections, of knowing exactly which string to pull, of having control over others. She dreams of being powerful, godlike, of swirling a wine glass as she casually destroys someone's career, of holding the power of life and death in a perfectly manicured hand. Zoe dreams of being a _femme fatale_ , and of always being able to _see_ what makes people tick, of always being able to bend those clock hands just enough that they tick to her tune.

No one becomes a fixer by choice alone. There's a strange mix of looks, skill and sheer luck that's needed, and Zoe realises that she should feel disturbed that it is so _easy_ for her to enter their elite world. All she has to do is go to a few dinner parties, dumb herself down to their level, and then surprise them with her lightning wit once it's too late. Manipulation, lies, the world of deceit and backstabbing terror, they come naturally to Zoe, come as easily as breathing, as waking up in the morning. And for a while, it's an exhilarating ride. She dresses up in skin-tight dresses, dabs red wine on her lips, and giggles along as her mind coolly absorbs all she sees. And then she uses that information. Uses it to get a criminal out of jail, to secure a business deal for a dying company, to destroy the life of an annoying Congressman. And she's _good_ at what she does, don't let anyone tell you different.

But Zoe knows her life is one of risk. Knows that at any point, someone may stab her in the back, one of her many enemies may decide that she's a nuisance that they don't want in this world anymore, and she could wake up with a gun at her head and a knife in her ribs. So when a deal goes wrong, and a typical retrieve-evidence-of-an-illicit-affair goes to hell in a handbasket, Zoe's unsurprised when she's greeted by rifle-wielding henchmen. She's always known that this sort of career was never built to last, was only meant for ten to fifteen years of unbridled fun, and would end with her body lying in a dirty ditch on the streets of New York. What she _is_ surprised at, though, is when they begin to fall, blood spraying out of their chests as bullets ricochet around. And as a man steps out of the gloom and whispers that _she's in danger, run, now_ , Zoe mentally notes down a debt owed to _dubious-looking man in a suit_. See, her life is ruled by knowing exactly who owes who, who can be made to grovel in front of who, and who will die for who. But she considers it novel that, for once, _she's_ the one owing a debt. It isn't a nice feeling.

And you would be right to say that Zoe's a double-crossing snake, that she wouldn't hesitate to betray you if it served her purpose, but _owing_ someone _her life_ is something completely different. Zoe pays back those debts, unflinchingly, and without short-changing anyone in the process. She takes down the people who put that hit on her, uses all she knows to ensure that they will never see the light of day again. She helps a dead girl, completes the task Dana died trying to see through, seeks vengeance in her name. It's fitting, in a way, that she gets to help Dana, gets to help the young teenager who reminds her so much of _herself_ , a naive thing with starry eyes and a zeal for life, reminds her of herself _before_ she became this creature with wiles, deceit and broken promises lining her heart.

The next time she sees the man in the suit is in yet another life-and-death situation. As they're tied to a chair, preparing to be tortured, he introduces himself as Reese, John Reese, and she can't help thinking of James Bond, snorts at the thought that she would be his female sidekick, shakes her head at the surreality of discussing _this_ as they're about to die. But if he's trusting her with his name, she'll trust him with hers, and even though she's fairly certain he already knows it, even though she's fairly certain they won't live to see another day, she whispers that she's _Zoe Morgan_. Names have power, you know, and now that he has hers she can't help but feel like she's under his spell.

But Zoe's always thinking on her feet, calculating her moves ten steps ahead of the enemy. And by the time their kidnappers return, she's ready. She betrays John with a laugh, a kiss, and a paperclip slipped into his coat pocket. Mentally, she prays that his lock-picking skills are up to scratch, hopes he can escape, knows that the kidnappers are bound to discover her double-crossing and shoot her before the day is out. Well, if she dies, at least she dies with her life debt repaid.

She should have learnt to expect miracles though. John turns up, shoots a few more bad guys in the head, snaps a few necks, and really, will she _ever_ stop owing him? Truth be told though, she minds it less and less, finds it strangely comforting that she will always have a man with a mind as sharp as hers, and a body strong enough to match. And from then on, every time she picks up her phone, she begins to hope it holds the baritone speech patterns of John, or the clipped voice of Harold, begins to hope that it's them asking for her expertise once again. She's good at what she does, and being able to use it in a way that's vaguely moral and ethical is an unfamiliar, but not unwelcome feeling.

At this point, you may think that she's in love. You may begin to think that Zoe wants to marry John, run away with him in a flurry of white gowns and satin gloves, whisk him away to the Bahamas for a honeymoon beneath the stars. You would be wrong. Zoe's a realistic woman, knows that she will never be able to have that sort of life, that John would never stand for it either. They're both _bad people_ , manipulative, deadly, dangerous. And there's no point putting on white veils and soft clothes if she's just going to stain them with blood, there just _isn't_. Being domestic is never going to happen, not when Zoe spends her days calculating how to destroy lives and ruin careers, not when John spends his breaking skulls and murdering killers. Not when they both operate together only because they _owe_ each other. But you can't blame a girl for dreaming, can you?

But oh, John is just _so_ tempting. When John proposes to her (for the sake of a mission), when he takes her home to bed (to satisfy physical urges), when he whispers sultry words in her ear (words are lies, Zoe knows that). He makes it so _difficult_ to resist. And Zoe begins to understand that, even for a master of it, the human psyche is one that can be twisted, one that can be made to love with nothing more than a light touch to an arm, a gentle word of comfort in an ear. And she, the woman who has spent her life manipulating people, realises that she's just as _weak_ as those she's laughed at. Weak for John's easy smile, his powerful punches, his precision with a gun.

The thing is, you see, don't you, where this is going? You know that after a glorious run, after a beautiful few months where they work together to save lives, where she uses her skills for good, John forgets about her, that he disappears into the gloom, that no matter how hard Zoe tries, she can't find him. With all her contacts in high places, all her blackmail, all her deceit and manipulation, she _fails_. She _loses him._

And just when she's begun to forget about him, Shaw turns up, rings the doorbell. Invites herself in, pours two glasses of whiskey, tells Zoe that John's dead, drinks her glass of alcohol, leaves. Leaves Zoe with the amber-coloured liquid swirling in a glass, with her thoughts whirling in her mind. Leaves Zoe to finish the bottle alone.

But you see, Zoe doesn't break. Zoe's a woman of steel, a woman of artful wiles and a keen mind. Zoe is _smart_. And she knows that there's nothing that can be done now, nothing left to do but continue living as she was. To continue helping with the numbers, helping Shaw save lives, helping the Machine predict crime. But Zoe makes it a point to pull a few strings, speak to a few important people, network with a few influencers. And when John's grave gets moved to a military graveyard, when his obituary appears on the front page of the news, when he is posthumously awarded with a medal of honour, well, Zoe will tell you that she has nothing to do with that. She's just doing what she does best.

 

_(To John) Remember when you saved me from being tortured and killed by corporate hitmen? Consider us even._


End file.
